


Winged Dean

by May1974



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Big Brother Dean Winchester, Brother Feels, Caring Dean Winchester, Cursed Dean Winchester, Gen, Growing Up, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Not Beta Read, Protective Dean Winchester, Supernatural - Freeform, Winged Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-12
Updated: 2019-01-23
Packaged: 2019-07-11 07:06:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15967229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/May1974/pseuds/May1974
Summary: Dean and Sam are attacked in their motel room by a mysterious... thing. For some reason, only Dean could actually see what (he?) it looked like, and Sammy claimed there was a blinding light. Fortunately, Dean chased it off, with the small price of sustaining a couple of bruises and two very angry-red blotches on his back that hurt like hell...And then he grew wings. Crazy, right? John isn't so amused.FYI, this story starts with Dean as 14 and Sam as 10.(I'm a Dean-girl, okay? I'm going to be biased like hell. Also, this is NOT edited. I had an itch for winged Dean, but there weren't many fanfictions out there that scratched my itch.)** NEXT UPDATE WILL BE IN JULY **(This is due to a shitty thing called school and bad time management).





	1. The Worst Night... Ever

**Winged Dean**

 --------------------

Sam wasn’t sure when the night had taken a turn for the worse. Dean could’ve argued it was when Sam snuck out of the motel room to go for a walk without telling anybody, but Sam denied that. It wasn’t his fault that their father had yet again dropped them off in the middle of nowhere in a grimy motel, that Dean had kept Sam holed-up in the room for hours on end, and that Sam was getting a little pissed with his brother and father.

After all, he hadn’t done anything _wrong_.

Taking a few minutes for a peaceful walk was not a crime, so Sam didn’t know why Dean was so angry with him.

Well… okay, maybe it was more than a few minutes—more like an hour. And maybe it wasn’t just a walk—he’d ended up falling asleep in a booth in the diner a few blocks away. Yeah, maybe now Sam was starting to understand the source of Dean’s frustration.

“Come on, Dean,” Sam whined, catching a glimpse of the obvious tight grip Dean had on his sawed-off shot-gun.

“No, Sam.” Again, Dean changed the direction he was going and continued to pace the room. “No, Sam, you don’t understand. I searched everywhere, and I thought you were missing, gone, that somebody had taken you—I thought you were _dead_.” Dean’s voice took on an unusual hollow, weak tone at the last word.

Sam scoffed and crossed his arms over his chest.

He would never admit it, but it hurt to see Dean so disappointed in him. And Dean had called him ‘Sam’, too, not ‘Sammy’. It didn’t matter how many times Sam complained about the stupid nickname—it wouldn’t change the fact that he knew he’d seriously screwed up if Dean stopped calling him ‘Sammy’. Sam enjoyed it, on a non-annoying level. His brother seemed lighter, happier, and altogether just more content when he was able to say ‘Sammy’ jokingly.

And the lord knew he didn’t see that side of Dean enough. No, Sam only saw Dean’s protective, parental, and brotherly side. Nowadays it seemed like his brother’s only purpose in life was to care for Sam, and nothing else.

At first, he hadn’t noticed or really cared.

Sam had never seen the truly happy side of Dean before—his brother was always looking over his shoulder, biting his lips, and lying through forced smiles, seemingly scared of something that Sam didn’t know about or see. To Sam, that was Dean acting normally. Then he witnessed Dean being pushed over the top by a monster that held Sam hostage, taunting the older Winchester until Dean snapped. Sam had never seen anything like it, and to be honest, he never wanted to.

That monster never knew what fucking hit it, and when John managed to locate them to try and rescue both sons, he found a bloody scene and two perfectly healthy boys. Dean had refused to part from his machete for hours afterwards until he fell asleep, exhausted from insomnia. Even then, the blade had to be wrenched from his hands when he passed out.

Sam learned that an angry Dean was a scary Dean. From then on, he had tried his best to read his brother, and he was dumb-struck at how much Dean bottled up his emotions.

It wasn’t noticeable at first—Dean giving up portions of his food to satisfy Sam’s hunger, Dean biting back retorts when their father berated him, Dean taking the blame for damn near everything Sam did… Well, in the end, Sam started to realize that Dean rolled with the punches, even if they were delivered with iron-ringed knuckles. And he never complained.

No, Dean would hold it in until his normally hyper-active demeanor became too jumpy, and then they’d all go to sleep and Sam would stay awake and listen to the horrible sounds coming from the bathroom. More often than not, instead of crying alone in the washroom, Dean would just leave the room for hours on end and only come back when the sun started to rise. Their father never caught on to Dean’s strange behaviour, and Sam never found out where Dean went on those nights.

So, in conclusion, it was pretty safe to say that Dean wasn’t _mad_ mad.

To be completely honest, Dean seem more stressed out and concerned than angry—he was just too frustrated with Sam to try and show it, if that even made any sense.

“Did you even think, for one second, that you could’ve been kidnapped by a monster?” Dean demanded. “I almost called dad, Sam. I searched high and low for you—I even left the motel and walked all over the block—only for you to come strolling in with bed-head while yawning and bitching about a sore neck!”

Sam at least had the decency to look embarrassed, if his flushed cheeks were anything to go by. It was true—after waking from his nap at the diner, his neck had been sore and stiff from being in an uncomfortable position for so long. The first thing he had done was go back to the motel for the sole reason of seeking out Dean and complaining about his pain. Sam had long since learned that if he was hurt, whether he admitted it or not, Dean somehow _always_ knew. And if Sam complained about something, Dean would immediately set to work on helping Sam. However, even though Dean _had_ lightly rubbed his neck to help smooth out the muscles, Sam knew he wasn’t going to receive the normal babying.

“Did you even bother to look out for—”

“I’m not a baby, Dean!” Sam blurted, already tired of his brother’s condescending tone. It reminded Sam of their father—John Winchester—when Dean was being berated. Sam hated to even think Dean and John were similar besides being related by blood.

However, Sam did have to admit that Dean was being way more merciful than their father ever would’ve been. If it were John, he would’ve already been belted several times now.

Dean’s expression faltered, and he huffed out a grunt of frustration. “Fine. You know what, I won’t ever bring this up again. But—” The older Winchester held up a finger, leaving no room for negotiation, “you peep a word of this to dad and you’re dead, you hear me?”

It angered Sam slightly that even though Dean had every right to be mad, angry, and had every privilege to tattle-tale on Sam, he still didn’t want Sam getting in trouble. Why did he have to have a brother like Dean Winchester? Honestly, Sam could not begin to try and understand how his brother’s brain worked because, well… he was Dean. Sam couldn’t begin to read the young hunter.

After a moment of silence, Sam nodded mutely, and Dean groaned as he ran a hand over his face. “I’m gonna order pizza.” At Sam’s look, he scowled. “And it’s gonna be meat-lovers pizza, because you’re a bitch.”

Okay, maybe Sam deserved that.

As Dean fished his flip-phone out of his pocket, he paused after a moment of thought. “You didn’t run into anyone suspicious, right?”

Sam threw Dean a bitch-face, implying, ‘ _well, duh, of course not_.’

Dean double-checked the salt-lines and proceeded to order their dinner for the night, and Sam resisted the urge to gag. They’d already had pizza the night before… and the day before that… and the week before _that_. So, sue him, he liked a variety in foods every once in a while. It wasn’t long before the pizza-man knocked on their door, and Dean unhinged the lock, his sawed-off hidden behind his back as he gave up money in exchange for pizza. Meanwhile, the whole time, the older Winchester gave Sam the silent treatment.

It hurt much more than Sam wanted to admit, and he wished that the whole thing would just blow over and that Dean would be back to teasing, calling him ‘Sammy’ with his signature smirk and snarky-attitude. It didn’t happen like that.

Sam was reluctant to eat the pizza, and it made his gut turn uneasily, but one scolding look from Dean had him wolfing it down, no complaints at all. (Well, except maybe the groans of disgust.) After barely managing to eat four pieces, Sam refused the fifth piece, turning his head so that he didn’t have to look at the disgusting pizza. Okay, maybe the pizza wasn’t as disgusting as it seemed at the moment, but all Sam knew was that his stomach said: _No more_.

However, it was only then that Sam realized Dean hadn’t even touched his pieces. Only half of his first piece was gone, and the brothers still practically had a whole pizza left, which was, in itself, something completely foreign to them. They normally ran out of food far too quickly, with Dean offering up his scarce portion for Sam’s benefit.

“Dean, I’m sorry about earlier, but you need to eat _something_.”

This wasn’t new, sadly. It’d happened a couple times before—Dean would stop eating altogether, flat-out refusing anything besides water, but their father never noticed.

As long as Dean was a good little soldier, John honestly never thought about checking up on the boys to see how they were holding on. The longest Dean had ever starved himself was almost a week, and yet Dean had somehow managed to continue staying conscious and functional. Afterwards, Dean would start to slowly eat again, but only in little portions. This occurrence seemingly happened at random, with Dean never offering an explanation, and Sam was _so_ not in the mood for it now. It made him feel guilty, and he didn’t even do anything wrong… well, illegal, that is. And he hadn’t gotten in trouble with the local authorities!   

His older brother didn’t even seem to register Sam’s words, and Sam frowned. What was wrong with Dean? His silly moods were so childish at times, something you didn’t expect from the son of John Winchester. Dean was just over-reacting, as always, and he was trying to be a mother where he wasn’t supposed to be—where he couldn’t be.

Dean had to accept that Sam didn’t always want him around, and that Sam could look after himself.

The younger Winchester opened his mouth to say something—about what, he was not quite sure—and that’s when Dean lunged forward, slamming into Sam with unnecessary force, knocking him to the ground. Caught off guard, Sam could not, in any way, be held accountable for his reaction. He had every right to emit a sound resembling an eight-year-old girl who’d just spotted a spider in her bedroom in a situation like that.

“Dean!” He squeaked, momentarily squashed by his brother’s weight, until Dean rolled off him just in time to grab the sawed-off that had been leaning against the end of the bed. Moments later the door’s lock clicked, and the door seamlessly opened without a sound.

The light that entered the room was far too bright for Sam to keep his eyes open and grab a glance of the intruder. Light was supposed to be warm and inviting—it was supposed to brighten the darkness—but this light burned. It not only chased off the darkness, but it completely trapped Sam as well, leaving him feeling numb and helpless in a world far too bright. He was almost unaware of where his limbs moved when he groaned—god, had he made that sound? —and he tried to cover his already closed eyes, the light burning through his lids.

Then came the sound.

It was like nails on a chalk-board; metal scraping against metal; thousands of alarms all at once; banging and loud, hurtful noises. It was like the sound of death—that was the only thing Sam could compare it to.

Sam was acutely aware that when he bit down on his lip to try and somehow escape that damned noise, he drew blood unintentionally. The intruder had no colour, no smell, no feeling—it was just the light, the sound, and the gut-wrenching fear embedded in Sam at the sight, or rather, lack of sight.

“Dean!”

The word fell from his lips before his mind even registered what he was saying. Where was Dean, anyway? His older brother had knocked him to the ground and grabbed hold of his gun—the last place Sam saw Dean was in front of him, trying to protect Sammy.

_Goddammit, Dean_ , Sam thought worriedly. He had no doubt that Dean would die trying to keep Sam safe—Sam was just a bit skeptical that a gun would do anything against this… this _thing_. 

Not that Dean would even be able to shoot straight with his vision impaired and the deafening noise ringing through their ears. Amazingly, Sam actually thought he could distinguish some words from the garbled-up sound of horror—but none of it was enough to piece together anything. It was more like a different language, really. A loud, deafening, terror-inducing language. To his surprise, Sam could kind of see Dean’s faint outline stand up, and Dean yelled something back to the intruder, but his words were overrun by the sound.

It was a miracle the older Winchester could even do anything without pain.

And the next thing Sam knew, Dean was pointing the shotgun at the intruder and there was a sudden flash of light—somehow even brighter than the previous light—and everything went black. The last thing Sam remembered was feeling eternally relieved that the sound and light seemed to have disappeared. It did not, however, help him feel any better when he heard the very distinguished sound of a dead-weight body hitting the ground.

So, it surprised Sam very much when he awoke in a motel bed, tucked under the sheets, with Dean sitting like a guard-dog at the end of their bed. Dean, who was still fully intact and had all his limbs— _and_ was conscious, might Sam add.

John Winchester wasn’t there, either.

“Hey, Sammy, how are you feeling?” Dean murmured. His alert, stern and brooding, (and sometimes slightly intimidating), expression melted in the time span of 0.2 seconds, replaced by his mother-hen persona. “You hit the ground pretty hard… uh, sorry about that. You feel sick or anything? Sore or in pain?”

Sam found himself squinting, his eye-sight slightly blurry, and he thought he could hear the slightest sound of a ringing in his ears. It was pretty annoying after about three seconds, and Sam subconsciously raised a hand to his left ear, rubbing the tender and sore lobe. It felt like he had water in his ear. When he pulled his hand away, through his blurry eye-sight, Sam could’ve sworn he saw blood on the tips of his fingers. He blinked slowly… huh. He continued his self-assessment, just like Dean taught him, and realized that besides feeling stuffed and disgusted by the pizza they’d had earlier, he was fine. Like, actually fine, not just ‘Winchester’ fine.

“Uh.” Well, scratch that, Sam’s throat felt like the Sahara Desert. He gulped, trying to produce just a pint of saliva to ease the unpleasant feeling. “Just my mouth. ‘S really… dry.”

Dean cracked a small grin, his left hand still gripping his shot-gun tightly despite his relaxed, casual demeanor. Dean had learned to lie and pretend his whole life—he knew pretty damn well how to keep his guard up, especially after an incident like earlier. Thinking of which, Sam had lots of questions.

“Well, you’ve been conked out for over a few hours, I think you’d be thirsty.” As if he had already somehow known beforehand, Dean reached over Sam and grabbed a bottle of water he had probably snagged from the cooler, which was mostly filled with beer. Handing it to Sam, he gently rubbed the younger brother’s arm. “You sure you’re okay? That man was… something. I don’t know, but he better not have touched you.”

Shaking his head, Sam started to worry about Dean.

“What happened?” He croaked out. Seriously, his throat should not be this dry after only a few hours. “Where’d he… go?”

Wincing in sympathy at how Sam had to force out the last word, Dean sighed, as if he had wanted to avoid the subject. Which, in hindsight, he probably had. Dean didn’t like chick-flick moments, didn’t like heart-to-hearts, and he was a guy who liked using actions over words.

“Not much—intruder, creepy speech, and then he… disappeared.”

Doubtful, Sam frowned at the eldest Winchester. Dean held up his hands in surrender, trying to convey how honest he was being. “Tried to shoot me, missed, and then left. That’s all.”

Dean reached behind him absentmindedly to scratch his back, annoyed at the itch that had started. It’d been bothering him ever since that strange intruder and— _no_. Just… no. Dean absolutely refused to acknowledge that something had happened. It was just a human… with crazy voodoo powers. And an urge to splay out multi-coloured light like he was some designated rainbow-shitting unicorn. Not to forget that he had promptly fucked off to wherever he came from as soon as he was done handing out shots of light, (which, by the way, were nothing like whiskey shots), and hit Dean more than a couple times.

That was okay, Dean thought in argument. He had, after all, shot the guy five times.

His gaze switched back to Sammy, filling him with relief when he knew with certainty that Sam wasn’t lying—he really was okay. And that meant taking the hit was worth it for Dean. It didn’t matter that his torso was sore and felt bruised, (a broken rib, perhaps?), and that his back itched like crazy and that he suddenly felt… overwhelmed, different, and slightly disoriented.

Sammy was okay.

Those three words were the only thing Dean was willing to acknowledge. Sam noticed Dean’s persistent itching, staring a bit too much for Dean’s liking.

“Just… drink your water,” he huffed.

Sam didn’t argue—he immediately unscrewed the cap of the water bottle and greedily gulped down the refreshing liquid. It wasn’t long before he was hit with a sudden wave of fatigue, and he glanced towards the digital clock on the bedside table—it was only 7:34pm.

“De… ‘m sorry,” Sam murmured, nuzzling into his warm pillow and feeling sleep creep up on him. “’M sorry.”

The younger Winchester had already closed his eyes, beyond tired after the events that had transpired, and so he had missed the expression that crossed his brother’s face. As Sam fell into an undisturbed sleep, Dean muttered, “what for?”

That night Dean didn’t allow himself the luxury of sleep.

His stomach growled for food, a gnawing feeling that killed his insides, but one that he had long become accustomed to. Dean’s torso, back, and muscles also hurt—they were all sore—and when he had checked his back for what he assumed to be two massive bug bites, he instead found two angry red-looking blotches on either side of his spine, near his shoulder blades. Understandably, Dean was freaked. What had that rainbow-shitting light guy done to him?

When John Winchester finally came back to the motel… well, it made Dean’s throat go dry and his hands sweat. He really didn’t want to tell his father that not only had a supernatural force broken into their room, but that it had hit Dean with what was probably a curse, and it had knocked out Sammy. _And_ they were out of water bottles.

He had given the last one he could find to Sam.

Then there was also the fact that Sam had gone missing for a short period of time—but really, is an hour even that short? —and not once had Dean called his dad through any of it.

Now, that was probably going to be the part that pissed off John Winchester the most. Knowing that Dean, the good little soldier, had failed. Miserably, too. Damn, the night had not been fun, and Dean felt like absolute shit. He was tempted to lock himself in the bathroom again, maybe walk out of the motel to find a way to work off his anger, (which typically ended with him beating up drunk assholes at bars), but he knew he couldn’t. He had to wait until the others were asleep so that they didn’t know about how cowardly and weak he really was.

There were a couple knocks at the door—three, and only three, each hit with the same rhythm without speeding up—and it made Dean unintentionally tighten his grip on the sawed-off, (if that were even possible—he was just about to make a dent in the metal.) Heart in his throat, Dean warily got up to open the door for his dad. He winced when he slid the lock open, remembering the exact action from earlier.

His father practically filled the room with his presence—he stood at 6’2”, was brooding, and had a stare that could make anyone intimidated.

Dean had every intention of telling his dad about what happened, but one look at the bloody and mangled mess of the arm connected to John Winchester had him swallowing anything even remotely close to a complaint or report.

Without having to be told, Dean got to work right away.

The first-aid kit was never far, and his dad didn’t even say a word as Dean lightly grabbed hold of John’s shoulder and guided him to the open bed, letting him lie down on his back.

“It’ll be okay,” Dean murmured, not even registering his own words. Glancing down at the mangled and bloody forearm, he felt a spark of fear in his chest. Again, he lightly squeezed his father’s shoulder in what he hoped was a comforting motion. “It’ll be okay.”

Dean grabbed the bandaging and applied pressure to the wound, trying to get the bleeding to stop, and he soon realized that his father was already half out of it, probably from blood loss. Even if Dean had tried to say something to John right now, the man most likely wouldn’t remember it in the morning. So, he elevated the arm to stop the blood-flow to the wound and help it stop bleeding, and he stayed silent. They sat like that for around ten to fifteen minutes, neither one saying a word, and then Dean removed the bandage and inspected the wound.

It wasn’t as bad as it had initially seemed, thankfully.

The actual wound itself was not too deep—it was just that it covered a very large portion of John’s forearm—otherwise, it was more like multiple scratches and absolutely no blood clotting to stop the flow of fresh blood.

Tentatively, Dean gently cleaned out the wound with rubbing alcohol and then proceeded to put a new bandage on it, wrapping it up in gauze to keep it in place.

Thank god no stiches were needed—Dean wouldn’t have been able to do it if he wanted to. He was already keeling at his own pain—the stomach ache and hunger was more so his fault—but it was mostly just because he felt way too weak to keep himself standing. And his back—damn! The itching, for the most part, had stopped. Unfortunately, that did not mean all was right and just. Instead, the itch was replaced with pain, and it made his back burn unbearably, almost like he was laying on a bed of hot coals. It felt like his skin was being pushed and pulled uncomfortably, and that something was trying to claw its way out. For a moment, Dean freaked—a filthy monster wasn’t going to erupt from his back, was it?

He didn’t get much time to worry because the next thing he knew he was stumbling over to the pull-out sofa, and his vision went black before he even hit the floor beside it instead of the comforting cushions.

\--------------------

Waking up was a bitch. What really sucked was realizing a few things, all at once. One: His face was currently smashed against the dirty carpet (ew)—turns out he hadn’t fallen asleep on the sofa like he thought. Two: His pain was doubled, and he doubted sleeping on the ground helped at all. Three: Last but not least, he noticed his dad sitting at the crappy coffee table in the room, sipping a cup of joe casually, as if his left arm’s bandage wasn’t bloody, and as if his eldest hadn’t been passed out cold on the floor.

Great. Just great. What a way to start off a typical Winchester day.

“Anything happen last night?” John asked absentmindedly, eyes skipping over the paragraphs of words in the newspaper. Dean knew he wasn’t actually reading—his dad needed at least two cups of coffee in his system to function.

Dean gulped, and then he almost had the mind to laugh because… well, it was like something out of a comedy movie. It was fucking hilarious, and ridiculous, all at the same time.

“Yeah.” The eldest brother flinched at his father’s reaction—John’s eyes became a little more alert, and his stance a little stiffer—and it was as if they were both waiting for him to finish with, ‘ _yeah, no_.’ Too bad that wasn’t what Dean continued with. “Crazy guy busted into the room last night, and I shot him. Sammy was fine.”

The stare he received was the absolute worst.

John almost didn’t seem to believe Dean, then realized that was stupid, because Dean didn’t lie, (at least not to John), and then his stare turned into a condescending glare. “What?” The word rang in the eerily silent room, and again, Dean flinched. He’d be getting the belt for sure.

“Was eating dinner with Sammy, ‘an the guy just… opened the door. Brought some serious strobe lights, too, and then disappeared when I put five holes through him.”

Dean was aware of how stupid and pathetic he sounded. He didn’t even add in the fact that a few of those crazy lights had hit him full-force when he tried to protect Sam. Okay, maybe it was dumb to exclude that particular information, but he wasn’t growing horns and he didn’t have a thirst for blood, so he figured he was, for the most part, fine. ‘Winchester’ fine, that is, because he was hurting like a bitch at the moment. He made an effort not to groan when he pushed himself to stand, and he thought he did pretty well—John didn’t even suspect Dean was in any pain. It probably hurt way less than what his father had going on with his arm, anyways.

“And you didn’t call me?” John asked sharply, eyebrows furrowed as he stared into his almost empty coffee mug. “You could’ve gotten Sam killed, Dean. What were you thinking?”

Dean could almost feel his cheeks turn a slight red in shame and embarrassment—that’s just it—he wasn’t thinking. His father was right. He could’ve gotten Sammy killed, and it was his own damn fault. He should’ve been watching Sam before he slipped away, should’ve had the room more secure.

“I wasn’t, sir.”

John muttered curses under his breath, then pushed himself up to a standing position. “You’re going to wake up Sammy and the two of you are going to describe to me in detail what exactly happened, and what this ‘man’ looked like, you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

Not even two minutes later, all three Winchester were in the cramped kitchenette, John sitting at the coffee table while Dean tried to describe what happened without getting Sam in trouble.

“The intruder came in without much force, through the door,” Dean admitted, though he wanted to say, ‘ _the door magically slid open_.’ “And he just stood there before he started to shoot at us—” more like had a disco party— “and I managed to shield Sam before I shot him. Used all five bullets and hit him all five times. Then he just disappeared.” ‘ _Out of thin air_ ,’ Dean added mentally. “There wasn’t much collateral damage, but Sam passed out, and I got him in bed and hydrated afterwards.” There, he’d gotten through the recount without any excuses. Their father had zero tolerance for excuses—you either told the truth or you shut up.

Or, you know, if you were a Winchester, you lied.

Dean didn’t even need to look to see that their father was beyond angry. John Winchester had given Dean every single tool he needed to keep Sam safe, to keep the room locked and guarded, and yet he had let him down.

“You should’ve been more careful, Dean,” John growled. Sam frowned, but before the younger brother could even attempt to talk-back to their father and start a fight, Dean discreetly placed a firm hand on his lower back, warning Sam—don’t do it. “Did you not lock the door? What about the salt-lines? Goddammit Dean, has nothing I told you stuck in that brain of yours?!”

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Dean hung his head in shame.

“I checked all the salt-lines and none of them had been disturbed or broken. The door was locked as well, and I had the sawed-off the whole ti—”

“Don’t give me excuses!” Their father sneered, clearly still agitated from the night before. “You’re telling me that the intruder—which definitely isn’t human—passed the salt-lines? That he just upped and left without taking or killing someone?”

Dean knew it sounded stupid, but it was the damn honest truth. He had to admit that it was a pain in the ass, but he was finding that the truth was quite dumb, and a little bit hard to believe almost _all_ the time. At least Dean hadn’t shared his earlier worry—that he had been cursed—because _that_ certainly wouldn’t have gone over well with John, along with everything else. It was just a huge pile of crap, and Dean was tired of the smell. He kept his mouth shut in hopes of ending the conversation quickly—he hated when arguments broke out among the three of them. They were family, they weren’t supposed to hate each other constantly. After a few tense moments passed, Dean was quite surprised with what came out of John’s mouth next.

“’M gonna finish the hunt, make sure I ganked all the monsters, and then we’re gonna get going right away. Pack your things, get ready to go.” John set his mug down on the crappy coffee table with more force than necessary, keeping stern eye-contact with his eldest son. “And Dean?” Said brother subconsciously straightened his aching spine out, standing taller. Standing at attention like a good little soldier. “You better not let this happen again.”

Dean internally wilted. He hadn’t _let_ it happen—it’d been an accident, an emergency—but how could he try to voice that without being called out for excuses or bitching?

\--------------------

~May1974


	2. What The Fuck Are Those?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean knew sprouting wings wasn't normal. Neither was being attacked by monsters, to be honest. And John Winchester knew that it definitely wasn't normal to wake up and find your son with huge wings and pointing a gun straight at you. But hey, not everything in the life of a hunter was normal, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry that it took me this long to update! I had half of the second chapter done, to be honest, but it just sat around for a while because I had no clue how to continue. I should have probably written out more of the story before posting... but that's not the way my ADD mind works. Hopefully I can get out another chapter after this! I plan to, anyhow. Just please be patient - I have exams to study for, and then it's second semester - so it might be a few months.

**Winged Dean**

**\------------------**

****Dean’s first and most important priority was to clean their motel room. It wasn’t a matter of whether or not he wanted to, either—it was an absolute must. There was no complaining on the issue and no way out of the chore. The whole time while he was cleaning the room, Dean had to resist the urge to slap his brother upside the head. After all, it was not Sam’s fault that he was still a little groggy and dizzy from what had transpired the night before. The youngest Winchester had decided to take a nap while they waited for John to come back, ultimately leaving Dean the bulk (read: _all_ ) of the cleaning to do.

In addition to this, Dean still hadn’t told Sam or John about his back pains, too afraid of their reactions. He just knew that John would most surely have a fit after learning that Dean had left out some very important details from the attack. In the end, he suffered the consequence of having to haul all their duffel bags to the door, clean the room all by himself, and essentially put it back exactly the way they found it.

That meant that there was no salt left over, no extra ammunition forgotten—it was as if the Winchesters had never even been in the room.

Dean had even gone over the precaution of wiping down any surfaces that they had touched or grabbed. What had happened last night worried Dean more than he wanted to admit, and so he was not leaving anything out of ‘operation clean-up’.

While passing time, waiting for John to come back from retrieving the spoils of his hunt the night before, Dean had started to go through all their duffel bags, checking to make sure that they had absolutely everything. Once John came back, they could up and leave instantly. Sam had _still_ been napping, a little fatigued—that lucky son of a bitch. So, while Sam had been passed out on the couch, Dean had snuck a few painkillers from John’s bag and downed at least a couple of pills—he didn’t really count. In the back of his mind a little voice said that it wasn’t healthy. He had told the little voice to fuck off.

Although, something that stuck out like a sore thumb was the fact that Dean had been forced to stop a couple of times in the midst of cleaning to take a breather, and it started to trigger growing concerns. Dean was fourteen, for goddamned sake! Why was he having back problems already? Had he thrown it out somehow in the attack, or was it simply bruised? Dean _did_ have some personal experience with bad bruising. It had been after a particularly unfortunate hunt, and he’d been left with bruised ribs, a major concussion, and a sprained wrist. It had taken weeks to recover from that—and he had even been forced to start learning how to write with his left hand, unable to use his right for so long. However, his wounds had been minor compared to John’s that time around, who’d almost lost his head.

When John finally came back to the motel, not much was said.

It was routine, and everyone knew what to do, so no words were exchanged between the men. Dean grabbed his duffel, woke Sam, and then hauled ass out to the Impala in record time. The other two were right behind him. Within seconds they were on the road, leaving the motel behind in the dirt. AC/DC’s _Back in Black_ was playing quietly in the background.

After spending thirty-four hours in the Impala, Dean thought that he was going to die of back problems at the age of fourteen. Right now, John’s attention was on the road, so once again Dean reached behind himself and scratched his back, trying to make it seem casual. Except there was the little fact that he had already done it a hundred times so far this tip. He could feel his father’s eyes briefly flick their gaze off the road and onto him. Using what was left of his willpower, Dean pulled away. It was like having a nasty mosquito bite on that _one_ area of your body that you just couldn’t reach.

It was fine, though. Dean was sure that it would go away, like his other pains had before. Besides, it felt like his blunt fingernails were going to dig a hole to Chine in his back, anyway.

Finally, after what seemed like a life-time of blended scenery and endless static from the radio, their father steered the Impala into the parking lot of a decent looking motel. It wasn’t fancy or anything—far from it, actually, by the looks of the flickering neon sign and worn-down appearance—but for once it didn’t look like they’d be sleeping with the bed-bugs. At the very least, Dean could spot some small landscaped area, which meant that the owner cared enough to keep his motel looking somewhat nice. Things like working electricity, extra blankets, and pipes that didn’t leak—it was small things like that that were a blessing.

“Wait here,” John instructed, putting the Impala in park and shutting the engine off. “I’m gonna go get us a room.” He tucked the keys away in his jacket pocket and grabbed a fake credit card from the little box of fake IDs, which was in the compartment in front of Dean. Then, after stepping out into the crispy air, he paused. “Dean, get the duffels out so we can save time.”

Then John Winchester was gone.

Dean suppressed a groan. It was nearly midnight, and their father had been driving all night. It made perfect sense that he would want to hit the sheets as soon as possible, but it just got so cold at night, especially as winter neared. They were in mid November, and the cold had decided to visit early. However, he did as he was told, making as little noise as possible so as to not wake Sammy. The youngest Winchester had passed out within a few hours after their last pit-stop at some shady gas station.

As soon as he stepped out into the cold Dean shivered at the cool breeze that hit his skin. He knew that he really needed a winter coat—his old one had gone to Sammy—and that it wouldn’t be too long until snow arrived. However, he also knew that they just didn’t have the money for one. His only option was to start wearing multiple layers.

Trying to pull his short sleeves down more, as if that would help block out the cold, Dean popped open the trunk of the Impala with care.

First, he cautiously checked to make sure no one was looking.

Then, almost robotically, Dean heaved all their duffels out. John’s was probably the heaviest, as it contained more than just clothes and bare necessities—it also housed a few selective weapons, just in case, and lots of research books. Pretty sure that they needed nothing else, Dean closed the trunk and held all three duffel bags, standing by the passenger door to wait.

It almost seemed to take longer than it actually did by the time John returned with their room key. “Thirty-one,” was all he said, his voice clipped. He didn’t offer to take his bag from Dean, and promptly woke Sammy up from his nap, not-so-gently shaking his shoulder. Perhaps the person in the office hadn’t tolerated John’s fatigue and grumpiness.

Walking while carrying three large duffels was awkward—Dean held his and Sammy’s on his left, and John’s on his right. They hit against his leg with every step, and it made his gait jerky and slow. His arm muscles burned, and he hunched over, feeling like a walking 90˚ angle. However, once they entered their designated room, Dean was discouraged to find that the small room only had two beds. He didn’t even see a pullot tucked in the corner. While it _was_ nicer than the last motel, it was definitely smaller.

Dean knew the drill—John claimed his bed first, and then Sam got what was left. Dean always ended up with the pullout—which he was fine with, to be completely honest—but if there wasn’t one, he was resigned to share with Sammy. And that wasn’t very fun. Sam was like an untamed octopus; he somehow always managed to get his long limbs tangled with Dean’s when asleep. He also liked to snuggle when it got cold, and more often than not hogged the blankets, leaving Dean to freeze to death in the middle of the night.

John roughly jerked his head in the direction of the bed he wanted, prompting Dean to lay his duffel bag at the foot of it.

By the time everything was tossed in a suitable place and salt lines had been drawn, Sam had already crawled into bed. However, John had beat him to it, as he was out like a light as soon as his head hit the pillow. Dean longed for a shower, and he started towards the bathroom, but when his vision blurred and his back throbbed, he quickly decided that sleep was better.

Dean had made sure to take more pain killers about seven hours after the first few, and then repeated the process after another seven hours. Despite the heavy dosage of drugs in his body it seemed that he was back to square one. The pain killers had obviously worn off, again.

He tried to get comfortable in the bed, wriggling in beside Sammy, but no matter what position he laid in he was always uncomfortable. Stretching did absolutely fucking nothing, and if he didn’t stop moving soon, he knew that he would end up waking his younger brother. That would probably lead to even more issues and explanations that he just didn’t have the words nor patience for. A tired Dean was a grumpy Dean, and neither was it a pretty sight.

Finally, with a big impatient sigh, Dean rolled out of bed and attempted to quietly open John’s duffel bag, the key word being ‘attempted’.

Thankfully, his father didn’t even twitch in his sleep despite the loud zipper that made Dean wince. Both John and Sam were heavy sleepers, and though it was frowned upon for hunters, it was something that Dean deeply cherished. He quickly snatched two pain killers and some melatonin, a kind of pill that helped you sleep. Dean ended up having to swallow them dry due to their lack of water bottles, causing him to have a slight coughing fit, and he then got back into bed and forced his body to stay still. Eventually, a grogginess overtook him, and he gratefully closed his eyes. Even his itchy back couldn’t pull him from his drug-induced sleep, and his consciousness slowly faded away.

However, what happened next was weird—though, Dean wasn’t so sure that ‘weird’ covered the entirety of the situation. Painful, terrifying, and flat-out confusing summed it up much better in his opinion. It went a little something like this…

Sweat coated his whole body, and Dean bolted upright in the small bed, his mind shaking off the drowsiness that had been closing in on him before. Even though he was only using one thin sheet—Sam had hogged the rest—Dean found that his body was cooking like a furnace. He threw off the single sheet and gasped for breath, his throat suddenly feeling like it was constricted, with large invisible hands wrapping around it. He began to pull at the collar of his shirt, the cotton material sticking to his now damp and soaked skin.

With only a little thought—that maybe taking so many pain killers hadn’t been ideal—Dean nearly topped out of bed and attempted to drag himself to the bathroom.

There was only one thing on his mind: cold water.

His head felt like somebody had stuffed it full of cotton balls and cement, making it heavy and fuzzy at the same time. He could closely describe the heat he felt to the one time he had almost gotten killed in a dangerous fire on a hunt, when a spirit had turned out to be some crazy pyromaniac. He clenched his teeth and let out an unidentifiable sound of relief when he finally got the handle to turn on the bathroom door, letting him in.

The bathroom was, disappointedly, very small. There was just a dingy shower, a toilet, and a cheap sink. At least there was a mirror above said sink. Dean yanked the door closed and felt for the light-switch, flicking it on and illuminating the tiny room.

When he pulled himself to his feet and gazed into the mirror, Dean did not like what he saw. A red face—so red that it resembled the Indians in Disney’s _Peter Pan_ —and dim, milky eyes. The green eyes that girls often complimented him on were dull and almost dirt-coloured. Brief thoughts flickered through his muddled mind: A fever? Too many drugs? Dean hadn’t ever had a fever like this before.

He growled in irritation. It was the goddamned fucking winter—why was it so hot? It most definitely wasn’t the heater in the motel, (that is, if it even had a heater). Dean roughly turned on the water, maximum cold, and splashed his face with it. It helped a little bit, with the coolness easing the heat, but it just wasn’t enough. He leaned down and practically stuck his head under the flow of water.

But it still wasn’t enough.

Making desperate and helpless gasps, Dean began to yank on his shirt, nearly ripping it off himself before his delirious mind remembered that he could simply slip it off and _not_ destroy one of his few remaining t-shirts. He flung it to the corner of the bathroom, and it landed in the shower. He was disgusted by it—the cotton had been completely soaked through. He then proceeded to strip off his pyjama bottoms, but decidedly kept his boxers on. He did _not_ want to be completely nude if his father or brother ended up having terrible timing.

Still hot and unbearably irritated, it only made sense for the back pains to start up, right? Dean nearly screamed, but he bit his tongue in favour of not waking up the other two. He couldn’t help himself—he started to itch. He told all his memories of John telling him to not itch a bug bite to promptly fuck off. He needed to itch.

And then Dean found relief, finally, and stopped for a moment. His vision was funny, and he loosely held his hands out in front of him, dangling in his lap. Huh… Dean couldn’t remember falling to the floor. The back of his head ached slightly, and he rubbed it, briefly wondering if he had hit it somehow. Feeling a little drugged, he cocked his head to the side and almost chuckled, except that it ended up sounding like a choking noise instead. His eyes were drawn to something on his hands, and it looked like really thin ketchup. Not quite making the connection, Dean could only stare, confused. What the—

The pain started back up, causing Dean to arch his back like a cat. He accidentally whacked the back of his head off the sink counter, and white-hot pain flashed in his head, making him almost numb. And again, like some terrible curse, Dean started to itch furiously, as if the action would save his life.

Dean only stopped when it started to hurt to scratch. More of that red stuff coated his fingers, and there was something beneath his nails—and ohmygod that was _flesh_.

Dragging himself to his feet and finding that he had suddenly lost his coordination, Dean ended up hitting his arm against the sink a couple of times before finally facing the mirror again. He turned and tried to get a look at his back—and through his groggy vision, he saw red. Red red red. It practically stained his back. There were big ugly gashes near his upper shoulders, by his spine, and it looked like a werewolf had torn him through.

Then he started to notice that some blood had gotten on the sink’s counter, and the wallpaper, and the floor—and Dean was beginning to realize that he had a really big mess to clean up.

His fever, or whatever the hell it was, did not let up.

There wasn’t a clock in the bathroom, so Dean couldn’t be sure of the time, but it felt like it took years for the ordeal to be over. Pain, itch, blood—it was on repeat. It wasn’t fun, either. Dean couldn’t help but feel like he was one giant throbbing bruise and mosquito bite, all wrapped in one. He hated it. He wanted it to be over.

Dean had long ago stopped looking in the mirror. It was only getting worse. He looked like he had contracted some sort of fatal feverish disease—and maybe he had. Dean really hoped so, because that would at least mean that either there was a cure, or death—an ending to this torturous process. In his heated delirious state, he wasn’t sure which one he hoped for. His shoulders started to burn again, and he helplessly started to itch the spot, groaning and panting like a dog the entire time.

He was just starting to wonder how the fuck John and Sam hadn’t woken up yet when a sharp pain hit his shoulder blades. Dean gasped, eyes going wide, and quickly pulled his hand away. Up until this point it hadn’t hurt _that_ much to itch, even with the blood. Everything had been hazy and dulled, as if were drunk. But now—now it hurt. And he had nothing to blame except his lack of willpower. Already the itch was creeping up—this small, intense burn that covered his entire back. Again, unable to stop himself, he started to scratch.

“Fuck!” He hissed, pulling away again. It hurt too much. This wasn’t a gunshot wound—this was so much worse. He growled in frustration, trying again and again, until he was practically clawing and digging into his back.

And then he pulled back, something clutched in his fist.

It was a feather.

Dean blinked. He saw the feather—it was about an inch in length and soaked in blood—but it wasn’t registering in his mind. Where the fuck had the feather come from? Dean didn’t get to dwell on that question for long because he was already reaching back again, scratching and grasping at his shoulder blades. Dean just couldn’t help it, and again, he held out his fist and found that he had three more feathers. Where were they coming from?

It was impossible to stop. That first feather had triggered a chain reaction, and now Dean was pulling out clumps and clumps of feathers. He felt like he was trying to find something, pull something out, something other than just damn feathers, but he just couldn’t reach it. Blunt nails dug into his blistered skin—his nails—and he gritted his teeth.

And then he struck gold.

It wasn’t pleasant by any means, that was for sure. It was fucking painful, and goddammit, he wanted to scream bloody murder. But he couldn’t—not without waking both John and Sam. Besides, what the hell would he tell them?

His hands plunged into his back—and this couldn’t be real, it just couldn’t—because it felt more like he was sticking his hands into a bowl of old stale jello. Dean’s fingers wrapped around two hard bulges, perhaps his bones, and he didn’t have enough time to think of how stupid he was being before he yanked on them. At first, there was only intense pain—something being pulled out that probably shouldn’t be—but then relief followed. Whatever it was, it was still attached to him, but it felt amazing now that it wasn’t stuck in his back.

With the little amount of strength that he was able to scrounge up, Dean tried to pull himself to a standing position, and he found that the things on his back weighed him down immensely. He just wanted to see what it was. When he finally did manage to find his footing, he wasn’t greeted with a pretty sight.

The reflection staring back at him looked like something from a horror movie, and Dean was the victim. Or the murderer. Either way, he was still covered in blood.

He twisted and turned, awkwardly trying to see the things on his back. He was praying that it was not a monster or a parasite or anything that his father would think need killing. Dean was _not_ prepared to see what it really was.

It was a wing. Well, it was actually two wings. Fucking feathered wings were protruding from his back, on either sides of his spine, right underneath the shoulder blades. And, oh man, were they big—no wonder it had been so hard to stand up—they were each at least five feet in length, or more. The feathers were soaked in his blood, too, so that most likely added to the weight as well.

Almost in shock, Dean reached up and felt the things. He cringed when his fingers touched the blood-soaked feathers—the _things_ must have had some kind of nerve receptors, because he could feel his fingers running up and down the arch. It was painful, almost, and his back ached from the added weight and gouges he’d made with his nails. Dean just couldn’t believe that they were attached to him—the stupid, ugly things were attached to him. The realization made him want to scream in anger and pain. Why did this have to happen to _him_?

The question of what to do next only briefly flitted through his mind before he realized that the first order of business would have to be cleaning up. The tiny motel bathroom now looked like he had gone on a murdering spree, and it had turned out very messy.

The wings— _his_ goddamned wings—were also in need of a bath. Not that he planned on keeping them, no way in hell. Dean didn’t even want to show John his wings. He just wanted to cut them off and be done with it, forget that this ever happened. However, the only way that was happening was if he washed the blood off them first, dried them so that they weren’t so damn heavy, and then found a knife sturdy enough to hack through whatever bones connected the wings to his back. Doing all that required him to go back into the motel room that he shared with John and Sam, and that would defeat the purpose of trying to hide his wings.

He didn’t really know what time it was, as there was no clock in the small bathroom, and he didn’t have a guess either. He had failed to glimpse the time projected from the digital clock on the nightstand on his way to the bathroom, and he wasn’t sure if it was a good idea to try and sneak into the motel room to grab a knife. For all he knew, one of them was already awake, and then it would just cause a scene.

Not wanting to try and explain why he had two fucking wings protruding from his back, Dean decided to take a much-needed bath first. He hoped that it would calm him down, too.

The knob for the water was only slightly different to what Dean was used to—it was one of the fancier ones—and he quickly figured out how to make the water shoot out from the top nozzle instead of the bottom.

Dean kind of wanted a bath, as he imagined that it would probably be easier with his new giant wings, but he also imagined the water quickly staining red. He’d have to change the water if he actually wanted it to be effective for cleaning. So, with all the grace of a drunk, he stepped into the shower and tried his best to clean his new appendages. The water stung and burned the gouges in his back, and he watched as a river of blood flowed down the drain. The entire time while doing so—running his fingers through the feathers, trying to wash out the blood—he tried to find the exact point where the wings connected to his back. After all, if he was going to keep this a secret, he needed to know where to cut.

He ended up finishing the shower quicker than he had anticipated—who knew blood was so easy to wash out of feathers? —and it was only after he stepped out of the tub that he realized just how heavy his wings could be. He almost fell over at the added weight. It was crazy that the water made them heavier than the blood, but that wasn’t his main focus—he was just trying to not slip and hit his head again. It would not help if he was knocked out now.

Slipping on his sweat-soaked pyjamas, Dean was hit with another realization: his t-shirt didn’t fit anymore. The dumb wings— _his_ dumb wings, he had to keep reminding himself—were so big that they prevented him from wearing it.

It was easy to figure out that the t-shirt _would_ fit if the wings were tucked in, but Dean didn’t know how to consciously move the appendages, and neither did he want to. He refused to think of them as anything but a deformity, something that needed to be fixed right away, because he despised the idea of having them for the rest of his life. With the new wings, Dean technically fit the description of John’s idea of a monster. His dad would kill him.

In the end, he decided to take the risk and go back into the motel room.

Was that a dumb idea? Yes, it was very dumb. But Dean had no other option—how else was he supposed to find a knife or bigger shirt? He’d practically ransacked the bathroom in an attempt to find something useful, but all he found was extra toilet paper, bars of soap, and an old razor that somebody must have left behind.

Using the skills his dad taught him—how to walk stealthily, on the balls of his feet, so as to not make any sound—Dean snuck into the motel room. The bed he shared with Sammy was closer to the bathroom, and Dean froze when Sam rolled in his sleep, suddenly facing his direction. All it would take was for Sam to open his eyes, and then it would all be over. Dean gulped back his fear and continued, mind running at a hundred miles a minute—he knew that his father had a dagger in his duffel bag, but he wasn’t sure that he wanted to get too close to John Winchester, especially with the heavy things currently on his back, making him clumsy. It was too risky. There was also the option of going out to the Impala to grab a blade, but Dean didn’t want to get locked out of the room, and he didn’t know where his dad had put the room key. Besides, there was also the chance that someone outside would see the wings and freak.

It was a lose-lose situation either way, so Dean opted for his father’s duffel. He had successfully snuck pain killers earlier without waking John, so he saw no reason that he couldn’t pull off a similar stunt again. He tip-toed over to the worn-down bag, muscles tense, and knelt to reach for the zipper. He was briefly startled when the wings scraped the ground, the feathers longer than he had first noticed. The unusual sensation and weight almost made him lose his balance, and he pitched forward, knees digging into the duffel bag.

Dean froze, terrified. He hadn’t made much sound, but the suddenness of the wobble had his heart racing. It was like he had never learnt how to balance in a crouch before, the damn wings.

He proceeded to unzip the bag quickly, wanting to get back to the bathroom as soon as possible, and he dug around in John’s duffel until his hand wrapped around something cold and hard. Thinking that it was the dagger he was looking for, Dean pulled it out, only to find that it was a black handgun. He cursed. If only he could turn on the light, then he wouldn’t have made that mistake—

Then he heard the unmistakable sound of John tossing in his sleep, and then there was a low groan. Dean eyes darted around the room wildly, looking for a place to hide, but it was too late. John sat up in bed and his focus zeroed in on Dean, his sleepy expression disappearing.

“What the fuck are those?”

Dean was bare-chested, and he just knew that John was referring to the feathered appendages protruding from his back. His fingers gripped the gun tighter, and John’s eyes were drawn to the barrel that was pointing in his direction, brows furrowing. And then Dean looked up, the gun still in his hands, and suddenly realized how bad this probably looked.

\------------------

~May1974

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so... I've realized that this story might be slightly AU. I'm not going to be following the timeline of the show, and I know that. This will be mostly focusing on Dean's wings, and Dean himself. I might write some of the show's episodes into this story, but obviously, the chapters won't match what really happened. 
> 
> Also, as a side-note, who should Dean end up together with? 
> 
> This story won't be focusing on romance, but there could be some. I'm leaning towards Wincest, but I know that not everyone likes that pairing. (Also, no matter who Dean ends up with, I'm not writing any porn. Reason one: I find it awkward. Reason two: If I try to, it will turn out unrealistic and awkward).

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so, I wrote this mostly for myself - I'm hopelessly biased, and I was craving winged Dean fanfictions. However, too many of them involved Dean gaining wings and then immediately becoming a soft, submissive character that lives to have sex, mostly with Castiel. Now, I adore Destiel, but I hated how weak his character became. I wanted an honest fanfiction where he learned to live with the wings and became a badass, no longer thinking of his wings as a curse. 
> 
> I won't write too many chapters, but I'll have a few scenes where he learns about his new wings, and how he is shamed by John for having them. It's going to get emotional - I hate to admit it - but I'll try my best to keep the characters as Winchesters. 
> 
> (Also, their childhood will be a lot more cruel than it was. Dean has to put up with a lot.) 
> 
> (P.S. This was not edited! I apologize for any spelling or grammar errors I missed.)
> 
> ~May1974


End file.
